


Rear Naked Choke

by 28ghosts



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Canon Disabled Character, M/M, Underage Drinking, background Bail Organa/Breha Organa, background Galen Erso/Lyra Erso - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9466502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/pseuds/28ghosts
Summary: Wherein Bail is running for student council vice president, Chirrut is the new student, and Baze is the popular quarterback.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt on tumblr: "high school popular kid/nerd au, Baze/Chirrut"

If someone had told Baze in middle school, when he was a full head and a half taller than anyone else in his grade and in the awkward stage of growing his hair out to hide his ears, that in high school he’d be a star quarterback and best friends with most of the popular kids in school, well, he probably would have actually believed it. Baze had always been a soft-hearted, optimistic fool, and he liked believing that most people would probably like him if they got to know him. That doesn’t mean it isn’t surreal to be completely unworried on the first day of his junior year about finding someone to sit with at lunch or making friends in his classes. He’s Baze Malbus, who won last year’s championship game for Jedha High after being subbed in because the star quarterback was injured, and people like him. Even if they’re probably still kind of scared of him. Whatever. Nobody messes with him, and he has friends.

So on the first day of school he sits between Bail Organa and Saw Gerrera at lunch, and he listens to them argue good-naturedly about Bail’s plans to run for student council vice president and -- Saw’s point -- the ineffectiveness of student council as an institution. “It’s primarily effective at getting you admitted to college,” Saw says, stabbing his mashed potatoes. “Nothing wrong with that exactly, but admit it. You’ll get nothing done. Institutional change only comes about through direct action.”

Breha -- Bail’s girlfriend, a senior who will be running with him for president -- grins and steals one of Bail’s fries. “I won’t pretend it’s the most effective legislative position of all time, but at least won’t it be worth it to beat Krennic?”

“You may have a point,” Saw says as the rest of them crack up. Baze steals a glance at Orson Krennic, sitting just a few tables away with most of the other jocks. Saw and Baze are both on the football team, and Bail and Lyra both do track, but most of the student athletes sit together. Krennic is insufferable but a damn good running back, so Baze can’t really avoid him as much as he wants to. Rumor has it that he’s planning to run for student council president, probably because he’s determined to go to an Ivy. 

“Have you met any of the new kids yet?” Lyra asks. “There’s a sophomore in my English section who just transferred in. He’s blind, so he has all the readings in Braille.”

Baze wouldn’t have had any more occasion to think about transfer students except that he’s late to his last class of the day -- history, with Mr. Draven, who he’s never had before. Draven is late too, somehow, but there’s only a few seats left, mostly in the first few rows. He scowls to himself and chooses the seat closest to the door. Only after he’s sitting down does he realize that he doesn’t recognize the student to his right, who’s got a white cane propped up against his desk. Draven makes every single student introduce themselves. The blind student’s name is Chirrut, and he was born in Hong Kong. Draven asks them to stay in their current seats for the entire year. He has trouble remembering names.

-

On Friday, Draven has them pair off and work on short answer questions.

Chirrut swings his head over and says, very gravely, “I’m afraid you’ll have to do most of the writing. Unfortunately, I’m blind.”

Baze does his best to muffle his laughter in his fist, but it doesn’t work well. Chirrut grins at him. Chirrut’s eyes are a focusless warm brown. Baze shouldn’t feel self-conscious about staring since Chirrut can’t see him, but he does anyways.

-

One afternoon in early September, at the end of Baze’s lunch period, he’s rearranging his books in his locker when he hears a shout and someone’s bag hitting the floor. He stares at the inside of his locker for a few moments while the adrenaline kicks in. Baze doesn’t mind throwing himself into the middle of a fight. He’s big enough that that’s usually enough to break up the petty fights that happen in between classes. As long as it’s not another football player fighting, that is. Things get more complicated then.

But then he hears a familiar voice, thick with irony: “Why, has someone seen fit to try and trip me? Oh, who could that possibly be? If only I had some way of knowing.”

Chirrut.

Baze closes his locker and turns around. It shouldn’t be surprising that someone wants to start shit with the blind kid, but somehow Baze had figured everyone else at school thought Chirrut was interesting and smart and funny and generally not to be messed with. Too optimistic again. Halfway down the hall, Chirrut is standing with his feet shoulder-length apart, his cane and bag both knocked to the ground. A kid that Baze doesn’t recognize is cackling, a couple of his friends at his back. Probably all sophomores.

“Pick my bag up for me,” Chirrut says, suddenly serious.

The normal chatter in the hallway dies down as the tension in the air builds: there’s going to be a fight. Chirrut and this other kid are going to _fight_. Baze wants to do something -- hurry over to intervene, or play the spoilsport and alert one of the monitors -- but he finds himself frozen in place. The way Chirrut is standing makes it seem like Chirrut has done this before, squared off against other people.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” the other kid says. He swaggers into Chirrut’s personal space, chest puffed out. Not like Chirrut can see him. It’s for the benefit of everyone else watching. “Go fuck yourself, man.”

There’s people scrambling away from the two of them, people drawing closer now. A loose ring of spectators eager to see what happens next. Baze pushes his way through the crowd.

Chirrut smiles a broad, mirthless smile that makes the other kid flinch. “Pick my bag up for me, idiot. Or do you think I can find it by myself? Regardless, it’s your fault it’s on the ground. Pick it up for me. I’m _blind_.”

A couple of the people in the crowd laugh at that, and that’s enough to provoke the other kid. He darts in and swings his fist, and Baze is about to yell something out when Chirrut ducks and rushes the kid, arms around his midsection. It’s like everyone standing around Baze flinches all at once. Chirrut’s got to be sixty pounds lighter than his assailant at least, but somehow, faster than Baze can process, the kid’s on the floor and Chirrut is half behind him, half on top of him, one arm wrapped around the kid’s neck, legs locked around him too. Baze realizes, belatedly, that he can see veins down the top of Chirrut’s forearms. Chirrut is _ripped_.

“What the fuck,” the kid wheezes.

Chirrut tightens his chokehold, and the kid thrashes. For a few panicked seconds, Baze thinks Chirrut is actually going to kill the guy, but then Chirrut relaxes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” he says, trying to kick free.

“What’s wrong with me?” Chirrut says back, voice mockingly sweet. “You’re the one who tried to hit a poor blind boy.” He unwinds and pushes himself to his feet in one fluid move, like he’s done it a hundred times before. He rolls his cane towards himself with his foot and steps on its base just so, and it pops up into his hand. The kid is standing up slowly, stumbling. Chirrut jabs him in the shin with his cane. “Never do that again,” he says coldly.

There’s absolute silence as the kid backs away. Chirrut is feeling using his cane for his bag. Once he finds it, he crouches down, slings it over one shoulder, and starts walking back down the hallway, same direction he’d been headed before, other students parting to let him pass.

Baze realizes dimly that Chirrut hadn’t even broken a sweat.

-

He sits next to Chirrut in History as always. “That was impressive,” he blurts out.

“Oh, you saw that?” Chirrut asks, tilting his head. He looks pleased with himself. “Rear naked choke, easy hold. I could have killed him. Do you think I’ll get in trouble?”

Baze shakes his head, then realizes Chirrut can’t see him do it. “I think if you were going to, you already would have,” he says.

Chirrut smiles wide at that. He has a good smile that shows off all of his top row of teeth. “Probably doesn’t want to admit he got his ass kicked by the blind student.”

Baze kind of wants to say, hey, if anyone messes with you, let me know, I’ll take care of it. But Chirrut is almost certainly better in a fight than Baze, regardless of sightedness, and also he’s just now noticing that Chirrut is, well, handsome. So instead he says, “Do you wrestle or something?”

“I practice Brazilian jiu-jitsu,” he says. “Have for years.” He leans in conspiratorially. “You might have noticed I’m very good.”

Baze tries to fight back a laugh and fails. “I noticed,” he says.

After that, they’re kind of friends. They don’t sit together at lunch -- Chirrut still sits off in a corner with a couple of other students who Baze doesn’t know and the Disability Coordinator, Ms. Mothma, who Baze assumes is there to make sure other students don’t try to start anything. And Baze still sits with Bail and Breha and Galen and Lyra and Saw. But sometimes before school starts, after Baze has finished morning practice but before the hallways get really crowded, he’ll find Chirrut in an alcove with his headphones on and sit next to him and Chirrut will take his headphones off and they’ll talk about BJJ or the books on ancient China that Chirrut is listening to on audiobook. Chirrut speaks Cantonese better than Baze speaks Mandarin. He’s vegetarian, which annoys his uncle, who he lives with, and claims to make better tofu than any restaurant in town. He lets it slip that he meditates. He’s a year younger than Baze and transferred schools because this one would let him take classes above his grade level, which his old school wouldn’t. He’s pretty much the coolest person that Baze has ever met.

-

Chirrut is in three different after-school clubs -- a history club, the debate team, and a disabled students club. There’s another visually impaired student who’s a freshman.

Baze has practice before and after school almost every day. So of course they run into each other sometimes. Chirrut takes the bus back to his uncle’s house; Baze drives. But the bus stop is on the edge of the parking lot, so if Baze ends up parking close to the bus stop so that when he’s headed back to his car after practice he ends up being able to say hi to Chirrut before he leaves, that’s just a coincidence.

-

(Obviously, it is not a coincidence. But Chirrut always seems glad to run into him and asks him questions about practice, so Baze doesn’t feel that bad.)

-

One afternoon it’s raining, and Coach Tarkin makes them do drills anyways, even after the thunder and lightning starts. Which he’s not supposed to do, but no one’s brave enough to complain. Saw threatens under his breath to write a column in the student paper about how student athletes are alienated from their labor.

By the time Baze showers and finds his umbrella and makes his way back to his car, he’s expecting Chirrut to be long gone. But it’s at least thirty minutes after Chirrut’s bus is supposed to have come by and Chirrut is still huddled under the bus stop, looking angry.

“Chirrut!” he yells, by way of announcing himself. Chirrut waves awkwardly. Baze throws his bag in the trunk of his car and then crosses the thin strip of mud and grass that separates the parking lot from the sidewalk and bus stop. Chirrut looks cold.

Chirrut looks a little surprised when Baze wanders over, presumably alerted by the sound of rain on Baze’s umbrella getting louder and louder and then disappearing as Baze ducks under the bus stop shelter alongside Chirrut. “My bus is late,” he says.

“Do you want a ride?” Baze asks.

“I live a long way away,” Chirrut says, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

“Really,” Baze says, “it’s no big deal. My mom works nights anyways.”

Chirrut stands there for a minute, seeming to stare out at the rain. And finally says, “If it’s not trouble.”

“It’s not trouble, I promise,” Baze says. “I have an umbrella, do you want to--”

Chirrut cuts him off by grabbing for his arm, resting his hand inside Baze’s elbow, the two of them shoulder to shoulder. “Lead the way,” Chirrut says.

“There’s mud,” Baze says, “but I’ll warn you about it.”

Chirrut nods once, curtly.

-

Chirrut gives Baze his address, and Baze follows the route his phone tells him to take. They don’t talk much in the car. Baze keeps the radio on to the local college station, playing classical music interspersed with droll public service announcements about volunteering for the foodbank. It’s maybe twenty minutes to Chirrut’s uncle’s house. When they get there, Baze parks at the curb and cuts the engine.

“Baze,” Chirrut says from the passenger seat, “why are you doing this?”

Baze digs his fingers into the steering wheel. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I hear what other people say about you.” Chirrut is sitting there with his seatbelt still on, his bag between his feet, his cane wrapped in both hands. Out of the corner of his eye, Baze can see the tendons in Chirrut’s wrists jump.

“Yeah?” Baze says, drawing his hands into his lap. The street is dark and empty. He feels tension building in his throat. In the air. “What do they say?”

“Baze Malbus,” Chirrut says, a touch of mockery in his voice. “‘He’s so tall, what a handsome quarterback.’ You have other friends, Baze.” He taps his cane against the floor of the car a few times, tilts his head towards Baze. “Why bother with me?”

Baze crosses his arms over his chest. In the silence of the car, the scrape of fabric dragging across fabric sounds startlingly loud. He wonders what Chirrut thinks of him in the moment. If Chirrut can tell he’s nervous. “I’m not handsome,” he says, his face going hot.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the white flash of Chirrut’s wide grin. “My uncle’s not home,” he says, “if you want to come inside.”

-

Baze isn’t sure how he ends up sitting cross-legged on Chirrut’s bed, watching Chirrut unpack his bag: his laptop in the middle of his desk, his books stacked on top of a mostly-empty bookshelf. And he isn’t sure what he’d expected from Chirrut’s room, but he’s surprised both by the sparseness and by the lushness of the room: of course there’s nothing on the walls, but over the hardwood floors there’s a plush red rug, and the bedspread he’s sitting on is definitely nicer than Baze’s and has been washed more recently. Chirrut moves around with a confidence that makes almost forget that the other boy is blind.

And then Chirrut is sitting down on the bed too, facing Baze. “I want to know what you look like,” Chirrut says, raising one hand tentatively. “Baze Malbus, not-handsome quarterback.”

It’s so easy to reach out for Chirrut’s hand and draw it up to his face. To let his eyes drift closed as Chirrut’s other hand goes to his shoulders, to map out the width of him. It’s so easy to let Chirrut touch him.

He knows his face must be hot under Chirrut’s hands, but mercifully, mercifully, Chirrut doesn’t acknowledge it. Chirrut hums to himself as one of his hands tangles through Baze’s hair. “Your hair is so long,” he says.

Baze nods, knowing that Chirrut will feel it, not trusting his voice.

Chirrut’s fingers work through his hair for a few seconds before coming back to his face, mapping his eyebrows down to the jut of his jaw, up to his earlobes. That’s where Chirrut’s touch stills, his hands resting light on Baze’s neck. Baze finally trusts himself to open his eyes and finds Chirrut so close to him it makes his heart jump in his chest. 

“Chirrut,” Baze says.

Chirrut skims one thumb over Baze’s throat. Baze shivers and reaches out for Chirrut, finds his hands resting on Chirrut’s knees.

“Baze,” Chirrut says.

“May I kiss you?”

Chirrut’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t pull away, which Baze thinks is promising. One thumb moves in little circles against Baze’s jaw. “I’ve never…”

Baze pushes his hands up to Chirrut’s hips, then up, over the thin fabric of his t-shirt, over his ribs, all the way up over his chest to cradle his jaw. Chirrut’s expression has gone slack, almost confused. His skin is so soft and warm that Baze’s words get caught in his throat until Chirrut says, quietly, concerned, “Please.”

Baze leans in to kiss him. Just once, chastely, closed-mouthed. He pulls back a little bit to look at Chirrut, who looks a little stunned. It makes Baze feel like he’s plunging through space, but in a good way. He tilts his head a little and pulls at Baze’s shoulders, and, well, the least Baze can do is oblige him and lean in to kiss him again. This time he doesn’t pull away. He holds the back of Chirrut’s head in one hand and scratches lightly at Chirrut’s short hair, and Chirrut shivers in his arms.

“Oh,” Chirrut says as Baze kisses the side of his neck. “Oh, _Baze_.” Baze is done for.

-

It’s not like everything’s easy. But it’s easier than Baze thought it would be. Krennic tries to give him shit in the locker room exactly once, and he slams Krennic against a locker and threatens to quit the team. Saw backs him up and threatens to quit too if anyone messes with Baze or Chirrut. And also maybe threatens to slash Krennic’s tires.

Coach Tarkin singles them out more than he should, once he hears about Baze dating another boy and Saw threatening people over it, but twenty minutes of extra drills here and there isn’t so bad. And neither Saw nor Baze gets invited to Krennic’s parties anymore, but they both agree that’s more of a mercy than a punishment.

-

Bail and Breha win the student council election easily. Lyra insists on throwing a party, even though Bail says that’s gauche, but Galen’s parents are out of town that weekend. Saw somehow acquires a keg and more vodka than they’re likely to drink.

A lot of people show up. The music is too loud inside for Chirrut, but there’s a bonfire outside. The autumn chill is just starting to set in, so Baze throws an arm around Chirrut’s shoulder and Chirrut leans up against him. Saw brings them beer. Galen and Lyra eventually stumble out, seeking refuge from the chaos inside. Galen is drunk enough that he nearly falls into the fire, but Saw rescues him.

“So, Chirrut,” Lyra says, sitting down. Chirrut stiffens against Baze’s side. “Baze says you’re testing for some sort of martial arts thing soon, right? He says you kick some serious ass.”

Baze doesn’t need to look at Chirrut to know Chirrut is probably grinning. The way he sits up straight and leans forward, that’s enough. “I test for my purple belt next month,” he says.

“I have no idea what that means,” Lyra says. “I take it that’s a big deal?”

Chirrut starts cheerfully explaining the ranking system that his gym uses. Baze adjusts how he’s sitting so Chirrut can gesture more freely, _and_ so he can watch Chirrut talk, the way he lights up from the inside when someone gets him talking about BJJ. From the way Saw keeps looking at the both of them so knowingly, Baze knows he probably looks every bit the lovesick fool. But he can’t bring himself to care. Odds are Chirrut ends up drunkenly demonstrating the kimura lock on somebody before the night is over. Probably Baze. He doesn’t mind a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.twentyeightghosts.tumblr.com), come say hi!


End file.
